


The Fluffy Pink Ritual

by suilven



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Crack, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suilven/pseuds/suilven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when there's the soul of an old god at stake, a witch has to do what she's gotta do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fluffy Pink Ritual

**The Fluffy Pink Ritual or,**

**Morrigan's Ultimate Sacrifice Ending**

Wretched, impossible, buffoons!

Morrigan slammed the cover of the grimoire shut, sending a cloud of dust into the air. She had thought this part would be easy. She was not unattractive… she had offered them an escape from what was sure to be an inevitable and gruesome death… and yet both Aedan  _and_  Alistair had turned her down! What more could those fools want?

There had to be another way. The old god's soul was so close, practically hers.

With a snarl, she threw herself down into the chair by the fire and opened the grimoire again, thumbing through the familiar pages. There was nothing in these spells that would aid her… unless?

_No._

She had sworn she would never resort to…  _that_.

Tapping the edge of a polished fingernail against her lips, she considered her options.

There were none.

Heaving a weary sigh, Morrigan flipped the heavy tome over and opened the back cover. With a practiced ease, she traced out several of Mother's favored sigils on the final page, her magic sparking harmlessly across the surface of the aged parchment. The hidden compartment opened silently, releasing only the barest waft of cheap perfume. She suppressed a shudder as she reached into the impossibly large cavity, drawing out the pink faux-fur covered volume within, the sickly floral scent now overwhelmingly strong.

She could do this.

Using the key that was attached to the bottom of the thin ribbon that dangled through the book's pages, she unlocked the ridiculously heart-shaped lock that held the vile thing closed. She took a deep breath—not a sensible idea; she was now hacking to death as the acrid fumes coiled their delicate top notes of rose, lavender, and vanilla deep into her lungs. It took a few moments for the spasms to stop, as she slowly unclenched her fingers from the arms of the chair and opened the book to its very first glitter-encrusted page.

It took several hours, and a minor attack of glitter lung that required some rudimentary healing, but she had a plan and all of the necessary components collected and prepared. The old god's soul could still be hers; it was just going to require a bigger sacrifice on her part. Morrigan picked up her pack, slinging it up over her shoulder, and headed out into the corridor. It had to be close to midnight now.

When she reached the door she sought, there was no hesitation as she knocked loudly. The door opened a moment later, its occupant clearly still awake. "Morrigan? This is a surprise."

"Indeed. I… have a favor I wish to ask of you."

The bard looked at her suspiciously. "What is it that you wish of me?"

Swallowing the indignant shriek of her pride—she  _could_  do this—Morrigan cleared her throat. "I was wondering if the offer of the…" she attempted not to choke on her words and mostly succeeded, "…makeover still stood."

Leliana looked at her incredulously. "Surely, you are not serious?" She cocked an eyebrow questioningly at the witch. "Are you?"

"Of course I am. I am incredibly desperate to do something with my impossibly fine hair and blotchy complexion." She hoped her artificially high tone of voice would drown out the sound of her teeth grating painfully together as she spoke.

The bard's peal of delight echoed through the hallway. "Ooo! I can't believe you've listened to me at last! Come in, please! I have such wonderful ideas for you—let me get my sketches!"

_She had… sketches?_

A continuous stream of prattle poured out of her mouth as Leliana ushered her into her room, her pet nug raising its head briefly from its luxuriously cushioned basket at the foot of the bed. "—it will be like a sleepover! I can do your hair and make-up, we can have a pillow fight, and we can stay up late and gossip. Oh! Maybe we can ask the kitchens to send up some biscuits…"

Morrigan restrained herself from rubbing her aching temples. This had better be worth it.

-o-

Alistair paced back and forth across the large balcony that encircled the front of the palace in Denerim studying the reports his scouts had brought back, blindly hoping that the contents would somehow be different if he just looked at them  _one more time_. In the square below the palace, the army stood hastily assembled and now waiting on his orders.

A humongous beast was approaching the capital, leaving destruction and chaos in its wake. So much of what had been rebuilt in the ten years since the Blight was on the verge of ruin once more. Something—someone—was riding it… commanding it? He reached out, but found no touch of soul-sucking taint answering back. This was no Archdemon, no hideous darkspawnian creation. It had come upon them with an unnatural speed, seemingly out of nowhere.

Time to act like a king.

Yep.

If only he'd figured out how to do that.

His armor was chafing painfully in a few places thanks to too much cheese and not enough sparring, but that wasn't going to be enough to stop him. He'd killed the Archedmon and survived after all; even Riordan had thought  _that_  wasn't possible, but he'd done it. He would defeat this, too, this… whatever it was.

"Your Majesty!" The page scampered in with a squeak of fright. "It's here! It's marching on the castle right now!"

Alistair drew his sword, raising it into the air. "Then, this shall be our moment of, er, victory!" The sun glinted off his hair in what he hoped was a magnificent manner.

They were all going to die.

Yep.

The building rumbled beneath his feet, sending the page diving back into the confines of the palace at a breakneck pace.

"Hold the lines!" he bellowed down at the army below.

A huge lumbering form appeared on the horizon, blotting out a chunk of the city. From a distance, it was hard to make out its features aside from 'holy Maker, that's the biggest pink blobby thing I've ever seen,' but it did seem strangely… familiar.

The army scattered as it grew closer—so much for that loyalty rewards program he had introduced—leaving him alone, waving his sword menacingly at the sky.

"You leave my kingdom alone, you, you, whatever you are!"

The rider atop the beast laughed. "Oh, Alistair, 'tis wonderful to see you are still as ridiculous as always. Do you not recognize your defeat when you see it?"

"Morrigan?" he whispered. She looked different. Her hair was impeccably curled, bound up with brightly bejeweled hair pins and flowers and ribbons and… were those feathers?

"Correct on your very first try! Perhaps your two brain cells mated and had some offspring since I last saw you. Commendable. Would you like to meet my friend?" She patted the impossibly large pink head.

The high-pitched voice thundered in his mind, dropping him to his knees.

_Bow before us, mortal. You cannot triumph over the might of the subterranean bunny-pig with the all-powerful gooey center of an old god._

_I am Urthemiel, but you may call me… Schmooples._


End file.
